


and then there were none

by waving



Category: Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard - Rick Riordan, Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, The Kane Chronicles - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Multi, One Shot Collection, in which paul is a former roman centurion and other weird aus occur also, problem?, the pjo is my sandbox and i'm a toddler with questionable tastes in sandcastles, the plot bunnies run wild, yes rick riordan is a character in his own story now
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:40:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21810982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waving/pseuds/waving
Summary: What could've been but never was.(“But did you have to tell everyone thatIwrote it? Now those stupid Hermes trolls won’t stop calling me ‘Rachel’.”A snicker rises from across the table. His head shoots up, and he shoots his friend a halfhearted glare. “Don’t laugh,” he warns.“You gotta admit, what you did in the labyrinth was pretty funny.”He juts a finger at them. “I saved your damn life and you know it.”“And I don’t deny it! I just think everyone should know that you threw your wallet at the titan of time.”)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 81





	1. in which paul questions his life choices

"Wait." Paul blinks. There's a smear of blue frosting on his cheek, a splatter of stains on his "Kiss the Cook" apron. His jaw hangs open at Percy, who stands at the doorway with an expression somewhere between regret and amusement. "Greek gods?"

"Yeah. Well. It's complicated." Percy rubs the back of his neck and mutters something about not being as cool as they sounded.

The patio sways beneath his feet. Paul steps away from the grill and stumbles past Percy into the cramped kitchen, where cardboard boxes are stacked to the ceiling. "Greek gods," he repeats. "They exist?"

"Paul?" A cool hand falls on Paul's shoulder. Sally bends down, a strand of her hair falling into his line of sight. "You're not taking this very well."

"I'm just—" Paul shakes his head. "So you're Poseidon's mistress."

A crease appears between her brow. Behind her, Percy bristles, and the beads of oil on the grill tremble, pulled by an invisible magnet towards this whirlwind of a boy. 

"I'm going to need to sit down," Paul says. "Greek gods. Crap. Crap, crap, crap, crap."

"You don't need to do that," Sally says, leading him to a chair shoved in the corner of the apartment. She hands him a glass of water and elaborates when Paul shoots her a questioning look. "The self-censoring. Percy swears in Greek all the time, even though he thinks I don't understand him—"

"Mom!"

"—but I think a bit of cursing is justified in this situation, don't you think?"

There's a hint of uncertainty in Sally's eyes, Paul realizes. And that's what breaks him out of stupor, not the dawning comprehension of Percy's strange habits (twirling pens, the inability to sit still, the eyes that track everything from Paul's fidgets to a note passed under a desk in the back of the room), but the fact that this beautiful, fantastical woman in front of him who saw this dumpy, middle-aged high school teacher and thought _yeah, I could love him,_ is _afraid_ that Paul is going to reject her because of some godly fancy fourteen years ago.

Paul forces himself to laugh. He sits, if only so that Sally doesn't have to hover awkwardly over his taller form. "I'm not going to leave you," he reassures her, and her shoulders ease with the knowledge. "It's just— Wow. Greek gods, huh?"

"What's so surprising about that?" Percy appears next to Sally so suddenly that Paul blinks, resisting the urge to rub his eyes. "Weird stuff has been happening around the world for years. Now there's someone to blame."

Paul hesitates. "I'm afraid you misunderstand." He rubs the knuckle of his index finger with his thumb, over the scar that runs silver across his skin. "Percy. In my English class, how many times have we talked about the gods?"

"Enough." Percy's face breaks out in a grin. "Too many."

"I usually focus on the Greek pantheon because they're the most common pagan gods that most think of, and I'm afraid that a class of high school freshmen don't have the energy to learn something new so early in the morning." He hesitates. "But. You know. They're not the only gods."

_Unease._ Percy shifts his weight from side to side. Somewhere along the time, his hand had sneaked into his pocket. The side-glance is back, and Paul is hit by the realization that Percy didn't get his heavy brows and brooding gaze from Sally, who would rather eat her own shoe than physically intimidate someone, but a non-entity of myths and ideas from a fallen civilization who controls the same sea that toils in Percy's eyes.

Epics have been written about the blood that courses through his veins, all pointing to the inevitable fact that all heroes die young, that all heroes _are_ young. And Paul—who hasn’t been a part of that world in decades, who left a little part of him to rot on that god-forsaken glacier—suddenly remembers what it felt like to have something to fight for.

Greek gods. 

Crap.

Percy blinks. The realization dawns on him the same moment that Sally's hands land on Paul's.

"What are you saying, Paul?" she asks quietly.

Her faith in him almost makes him buckle. He starts, stops, then begins again. "The Romans weren't exactly buddy-buddy with the Greek," Paul says. He's stalling, he knows, but _dammit_ this was not a revelation he expected today. "I guess I'm experiencing what you call a 'culture shock.'"

"Mom," says Percy, "get back."

When she doesn't move, Percy withdraws his hand from his pocket and points a pen at Paul. His fury saps the moisture from Paul's mouth and skin. "You're not human."

Paul swallows, and then nods. "In the same way that you aren't, I suppose." Then he adds, "Did you know that I'm part Italian?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this a few years ago. found it in my drive, read it over, then polished it up. it's a fun idea! i was obsessed with minor characters back then, and I latched onto the idea of Paul being a Roman demigod immediately
> 
> this will be a series of one-shots and aus. there's going to be some weird ones, since PJO is such a huge universe that doesn't get enough credit for its worldbuilding
> 
> watch the tags - they're important


	2. writer's block

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’d written it on a whim. He should know what great wars were started because of whims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have no idea where this came from. just take it

His first reaction is to stare, dinner forgotten. The camp’s perfectly smoked ribs turn to sand in his mouth. “You’re kidding me.”

At the very least, his friend looks apologetic. They take a sip of their soda, both to cover their face and to parch their thirst. Climbing the lava wall in 90 degree weather is no small feat. “Sorry?”

“You gave my story to _Mr. D?_ ”

“He’s not as bad as you think he is—“

“Is that why everyone in the camp has a copy of it?” His voice rises. “Because he thought it was funny to tell everyone that I like to write stories about my friends?”

“Hey, it’s a good story!”

“That’s not—“ He exhales through clenched teeth. “That’s not the point,” he says in a far more measured tone. “They were _private._ ”

He deliberately ignores how his friend’s frown darkens their gaze and turns them into a modern-day Greek sculpture, carved features and cupid-bow lips and all. 

“Rick, that’s the point. No matter how you feel about it, they’re records of history. They shouldn’t be private, especially when half of the campers don’t know or remember—“ They cut themselves off. The memory of the scarred traitor lingers between them. “You know.”

His friend has a point, he admits, but he isn’t about to admit that to their face. With a groan, he buries his head in his hands and scrubs his face.

“But did you have to tell everyone that _I_ wrote it? Now those stupid Hermes trolls won’t stop calling me ‘Rachel’.”

A snicker rises from across the table. His head shoots up, and he shoots his friend a halfhearted glare. “Don’t laugh,” he warns.

“You gotta admit, what you did in the labyrinth was pretty funny.”

He juts a finger at them. “I saved your damn life and you know it.”

“And I don’t deny it! I just think everyone should know that you threw your wallet at the titan of time.”

“It was a split-second decision, and the right one, evidently.” He looks down at his plate of ribs and pushes it forward, appetite forgotten. “So now what? I get to live forever with the knowledge that every camper has seen the equivalent of my middle school love letters?” 

His friend takes a bite of their pizza, a contemplative expression replacing their shit-eating grin. “Sure, if you want. Or you could make _killer_ bucks by selling your idea on the Internet—”

“ _No._ ”

“Just joking.” They pause. “You’re a good writer.”

He sighs. “Thanks.”

“I’m not kidding! Life-threatening situations aside, this could be a great way to reach out to kids around the world.”

He pauses. There’s a gleam in his friend’s eyes, one that only appears when they have an idea that they know he won’t like.

Oh.

_Oh._

“You’re talking about sending a secret message to demigods around the world,” he says, and it sounds ridiculous, even speaking it out loud. But his friend has always had a penchant for the strange and bizarre. “A— A recruitment letter.”

“Wouldn’t it be so cool? It’d just be another fantasy book series to mortals—another in a long list of YA novels that get pumped out every year. But to kids like me—”

“—it’d be a step-by-step guide on how to get to camp,” he finishes. “How to survive when the whole pantheon is out to get you.”

“Exactly.” His friend leans back in their chair and grins. “Wouldn’t that be awesome?”

“And you want me to write it?”

“Why not? You already have most of it down.”

He’s silent. It’s an interesting idea for sure, and it’d save hundreds, if not _thousands_ of demigod children who are just coming into their powers, who have no idea that the monster under their bed is very real and very hungry. But the entire plan hinged on his ability to convince a group of bored publishers that his “story” about a secret camp for demigods in the middle of New York wasn’t an instant flop.

In the end, it’s his friend who breaks the silence first by shrugging and finishing their soda with an obnoxious slurp. “Up to you, really. Just throwing it out there.”

“Let me…” He shakes his head. “Let me think about it.” But by the way his fists clench on the table and his eyes gain a curious glint, the decision has already been made.

His friend grins. Then, they comment, “You know, it’s kinda interesting to see yourself from another person’s eyes.”

“Don’t," he says, but they're already on a roll.

“Looks of a Roman deity, huh?”

“ _I’m going to feed you to Festus_."

“Oh, please.” His friend snorts and waves a hand. “As if his dad would ever let you ruin his precious metal dragon with _human remains._ ”

He stares. “There are so many things wrong with that sentence, I don’t even know where to _start_ —”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so obviously rick riordan didn't write pjo to reach out to demigods out there in the real world. (or did he? dun-dun-dun) i'm pretty sure he wrote it because his son liked it, and the entire point of having demigods be dyslexic and ADHD was to spread representation for that demographic
> 
> but this was pretty fun nonetheless :D 
> 
> rick's friend's gender is ambiguous because i felt like it


End file.
